


Thanks for the Memories Vol. I

by bereniceofdale_archive (bereniceofdale)



Series: Thanks for the Memories [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Set in Middle-Earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 17:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4313070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereniceofdale/pseuds/bereniceofdale_archive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Thranduil’s life is threatened, Bard must make a choice: watch him die, or save him and forget all they have shared. (prompt: “Person B making a deal to save Person A’s life at the cost of all their memories together.”)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanks for the Memories Vol. I

**Author's Note:**

> I've been asked to write something for this prompt by [lightning-shaped-scars](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lightning_shaped_scars) so here it is!
> 
> I'm so sorry.

_It should never have happened like this._

_It wasn't supposed to happen like this._

_It could not happen like this._

_It could not._

  


“I’m sorry,” a healer said, her own voice shaky. “There's nothing more we can do but wait.”

But Bard could not hear her. He didn't want to. He knew what that meant.

All he could hear was the unstable breath of his unconscious husband, as weak as if it would be the last. All he could see were the bloodied bandages covering Thranduil's chest, the scars he couldn't hide anymore. All he could see were the years they had left together fading away before his very eyes.

Bard hung onto Thranduil's hand—so soft, yet colder than it should be—like an anchor, not even trying to calm his own breath. Each inhale and exhale hurt like a thousand needles piercing his throat. His eyes were clouded with tears that kept silently rolling down his cheeks.

He didn't care to be a King crying in front of his subjects.

Bard didn't care about anything but the Elf he loved, lying on his death bed.

He didn't even feel the pain in his wounded, ruined arm. The one in his chest and heart, however, was unbearable.

It wasn't only because of what had happened. It was also because of what he had to do. He had hoped everyday that this moment would never come. He had hoped he would never have to use it. He had hoped keeping it had been a mistake.

When Bard had found out about it, he had made Thranduil promise to never use it.

In return Thranduil had reluctantly asked him to throw it in the river and forget about it.

But Bard, as he had held it above the water, had not found the strength to when two simple questions had come to his mind.

_What if?_

_Why not?_

And so he had made a decision; the one to decide if and when the moment had to come, for this choice was also his to make.

But it was always supposed to be him. He was the one who should be lying in this bed. Thranduil was untouchable, invulnerable. That is what Bard had always believed.

“My King?”

It was the healer who once again tried to get him out of his silence. This time he looked up to meet her worried gaze.

“Let us tend to your wound, my King,” she said, eyes flickering to his bloodied arm. “You don't have to leave his side. Just let us help you.”

Bard barely nodded his approval before he got his full attention back to his husband, his hand never leaving Thranduil's. He brought it to his lips, kissed it with all the tenderness in the world, his eyes speaking a thousand words of love Thranduil couldn't see, and would maybe never see again.

Only then did he let it travel along Thranduil's arm, up to his face where his fingers could caress cheek and forehead covered in sweat. Not once did he allow himself to break the contact of skin against skin; it was too precious when they had so little time left to share it.

Bard didn't the feel the healers working on his wounds, cleaning and suturing. He barely felt the pain of the needle piercing skin and flesh.

If not for one of them putting a soft hand on his shoulder and squeezing, he wouldn't have heard them when they told him they were done, and that maybe, maybe he should rest. Rest? Now? He couldn't rest now. Not without knowing Thranduil would be fine, and live.

As he thought about life, he wondered; what would be of his own without him, after all?

What was life worth when he would never wake up next to his heart and soul again? When he wouldn't never find any rest without Thranduil's warm, loving body pressed against his? Without his soft kisses and his words of love? What was life worth without him at all, without him walking the earth?

He wasn't that old yet, but he wasn't young. He couldn't bear the thought of living his last years without the one he loved so dearly. It wasn't fair. It was selfish, but it wasn't how things were supposed to be.

Yet he didn't think of death as an option. Thranduil wouldn't want it, ever.

There wasn't an afterlife for them to share anyway.

Bard knew what he had to do. It was the only thing. The less painful one on the long term. There would be pain today, so much pain, but tomorrow things would be fine. They would be fine for the people they would be then.

A deep breath and Bard looked up to the healer. The tears had stopped but his chest still felt crushed under the weight of all the world's sorrows. He tried to pull himself back together, to get a bit of his composure back. To act like the King he was, if only for this short moment.  He needed them to leave.

“Go tell my children of what happened.” He sighed, ran a hand across his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tell them I'm okay and to not come here until tomorrow morning under any circumstance. Tell them it's for the better; they'll understand soon enough.”

“Very well, my Lord.” If the healer had questions, she didn't ask, and Bard was thankful for it.

“Then find a messenger and send word to Mirkwood. Ask them to tell Prince Legolas there's been an accident,” Bard ordered. “Tell them their King has been wounded, but that he will be fine.”

“But, King Bard—”

“He will be,” he repeated, voice harsh and letting no place for discussion. “Now go.”

She bowed her head and left, the door closing quietly behind her. Bard turned to the other healer.

“Please go.” He held up a hand to stop the man from protesting. “Tell the men outside to leave as well.”

Silence crept into the room as soon as Bard was left alone with the suffering form of his husband. Only their breaths disturbed it; one laborious, the other shaky from fear. He stroked the back of Thranduil's hand slowly, kissing it from time to time ever so gently, as his mind was flooded with thoughts and worries.

The children would have questions once they would find out. Questions he couldn't answer, for he would have as many as them. Yet he knew they would come to their own conclusions, understand, and find something to tell to their people, Men and Elves alike. Then, even them would understand too, why he had done it.

Bard stood to kiss his husband's lips, before his other hand searched his inside pocket, taking out a ridiculously small vial. He always brought it with him wherever they went together, had never been able to let it hidden in his rooms. Because of those two words, two words that never left his mind when he packed.

_What if?_

He couldn't stop his hand from shaking.

He wasn't so sure he could do it.

If roles had been reversed, he wasn't sure he would have wanted it. Wasn't it why he was in possession of it in the first place? Wasn't it why he had been supposed to throw it away, all those years ago?

Weren't they selfish, in some way? Refusing the other to use it when they knew they were ready to themselves, so they wouldn't have to see their beloved die? Maybe that was why Thranduil would understand; because he would do the same.

Bard looked at the vial he was holding like his own life depended on it; and the irony was that it did somehow. It was his life he was putting in line; their lives. He feared to do it. He feared it more than death itself, however better the outcome was.

Yet when a moan of pain escaped his lover's mouth, breaking his heart a bit more, Bard knew time was running out.

Bard knew he had to do it.

He inhaled deeply, opened the vial and tried to calm the shaking of his hand as he levered his beloved's head with the other, bringing the cursed remedy to Thranduil's lips.

“Drink, my love,” he whispered more to himself than Thranduil, who he feared couldn't hear him. “Everything will be alright.”

When Bard sat down again, the pain overwhelmed him like it had not until then, as if finally acting had freed him from the walls he had tried to build against it. He felt it all; the one from his wound, from his bruises, from his chest, his throat. The one from his heart and soul breaking into a thousand sharp pieces, cutting everything they could touch on their way down. He held his face between his hands, choked back a scream as his body trembled and tears fell down his cheeks.

_Why, why, why._

_It was done now. Thranduil would be fine._

_But it wasn't fair._

Bard leaned over then, in order to cup his love's head between his hands and drop kisses upon kisses to his forehead and the corner of his mouth, each and everyone of them speaking all the words of love and apology he couldn't voice.

He cried until he felt like he had no more tears to shed.

Relief washed through him nonetheless upon seeing his beloved slowly but surely breathing steadily again, the blood stopping its spread on his bandages and his cheeks getting their colours back. Right now Bard was thankful for the dark magic or whatever it really was; despite what he had to give in exchange. All was worth seeing a loved one well, escaping the claws of death, even for what he felt was the greatest of sacrifices.

Progressively Bard calmed down as much as he could manage; it felt like trying to walk opposite to the squalls of a storm. He struggled, but eventually his breath grew quieter, the pain more bearable as it now waited under the surface. It stopped the trembling of his body, though the shaking of his hands and the red of his eyes were nothing he could fight against.

Then Bard waited. He waited and waited for Thranduil to wake up, murmuring hopeless prayers to the Valar in the hopes they would hear him, followed by sweet words to his beloved. He closed his eyes, holding Thranduil's hand close to his lips, resting his forehead against it, breathing what was left of Thranduil's sweet flower scent.

That is what he did, until gently, he felt fingers moving, stroking his cheek; it was the ghost of a touch, but a touch nonetheless.

When Bard opened his eyes, he was welcomed by the icy blue ones of his husband looking straight at him, filled with an ever growing worry as they travelled across Bard's bandaged arm.

“Hey love,” he said, his tone full of pure relief, his eyes going teary again.

“Bard, are you o—”

“I'm fine,” Bard cut him off; he tried a smile to hide the lie, but it was broken. “How do you feel?”

Thranduil looked at him and said nothing. He seemed to be in deep thought; to analyze his husband's face; to understand how fake his smile was; to notice the sorrow in his gaze.

“Bard, what have you done?”

Bard winced at the question.

“I'm sorry,” he breathed, looking away, unsure if he was able to hold the weight of his lover's eyes.

“Meleth nîn, _what have you done_?” Thranduil repeated, his voice softer, more pleading.

He couldn't help but look in Thranduil's direction again. Bard had never heard him sound like this; it was terrible.

“I'm so sorry, my love.” His voice was as broken as the smile he had tried to give.

Thranduil just stared at him for a moment, looking lost, until his eyes flickered between his own bandages and the shaking of Bard's hand still holding the vial. Quickly confusion turned to a kind of horror Bard had never seen upon anyone's features before. It sent a shiver down his spine, and for a fraction of second, he wondered if he had made the right decision.

Bard could see Thranduil's realization process by the way his eyes were wider, his breath less stable, the hold of Thranduil's hand in his growing tighter.

“No. No, please. You didn't—” Thranduil choked out, _begged_. “You said you had thrown it away.”

“It was the best thing to do. You couldn't d—” Bard closed his eyes, keeping the tears threatening to fall again at bay. “I couldn't let you die.”

The despair in Thranduil's eyes was too much to bear; Bard could barely hold his gaze.

“Everything will be okay,” Bard said, reaching out to stroke his husband's cheek with his thumb, trying on a reassuring smile; but it was nothing but ashes that a whisper of the wind would send drifting away. “Sleep now my love, _please_.”

“No, I can't, Bard, I can't.” Tears were now falling freely down his cheek, and he sat up as straight as he could despite his exhaustion, so that his hands could grip Bard like a life boat, dragging him onto the large bed. “I can't forg—please, please.”

Bard let himself be taken and lied down next to his love, ignoring the sharp pain in his arm as he brought Thranduil into a tight embrace, wishing instantly he would never have to let go.

What a hopeless wish.

“I'd rather die than live and forget you,” Thranduil whispered in his husband's neck, his breath shaky, yet holding the weight of the bitterful resignation one feels when he knows what has been done was the right choice.

“I know.” Oh, how he knew. But did it matter? They wouldn't remember what they were leaving behind. At least Thranduil lived. It had been the only possibility he had that didn't involved the sun and stars of his life dying.

It was the one he could bear with the most, and deep down he knew it was also what was best for Thranduil.

He would die anyway. The King of Dale would die and leave the Elvenking alone to grieve once again, to live alone with an unbearable pain he wouldn't be able to soothe in any way.

Yes, in the end, it was for the best.

Careful not to hurt his scars, Bard shifted his position on the bed to kiss his husband in a deep, slow and desperate way, as they clung onto each other, their quiet tears mixing, falling down their cheeks to leave a salty path on their way down.

They kept sleep away for as long as they could. It felt as if they were speaking on borrowed time, whispering declarations of love into the quiet of the room. There wasn’t much else to say. Bard didn't need to ask what Thranduil was thinking about; for he was thinking about the same things: the memories they were leaving behind, the emptiness that was ahead, and how losing it all was better than the fate that had always been waiting for them. 

They wished, however, that all this hadn't happened. They wished they had been given more time. So many years, at least to Bard but worth all the same to Thranduil, they could have shared. It was too soon, and it broke Bard's heart just as much as he felt Thranduil's shattering into a thousand pieces, as their bodies were pressed together close enough that he could feel it all.

But life isn't kind. They had learned it the hard way on their own and were experiencing it again together; for life was even less gentle when an immortal soul loves a mortal one so dearly.

Just as Bard fell into the depths of a dreamless sleep, he could feel his lover's heartbeat close to his own, beating in unison, and hear his voice telling him, over and over again, that he loved him, and would love him forever.

***

Yet when Bard woke up in the morning, something was off.

When Bard looked up to meet the confused eyes of his beloved husband and felt all the pain tearing him down again, a pain he wasn't supposed to feel anymore, he knew how it had gone wrong; he shouldn't remember.

He knew Thranduil; his love, heart and soul.

But Thranduil didn't know him.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't be mad at me.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3
> 
> Please leave a kudos and feedback if you've """enjoyed""" this? :)


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